


they're good dogs (15/10)

by andibeth82



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Because everyone needs a dog, Clint gets Bucky a dog, Service Dogs, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 03:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12950640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: “Uh.” Bucky looks at Clint in total and utter confusion. “Who is this?”“His name is Barnabus,” Clint explains proudly. “He’s a service dog. Isn’t he cute?”





	they're good dogs (15/10)

**Author's Note:**

> Based off [this drawing](http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com/post/168078586677/bexlie-draws-trust-clint-to-find-just-the-dog). Because really, who thinks Clint Barton WOULDN'T get Bucky Barnes a dog?

For his part, Bucky thinks he’s doing okay.

He sometimes doesn’t sleep at night, but that’s normal. He still gets spooked when someone follows him, but that’s normal. He only eats certain food because he has to adapt to actual years worth of change in cuisine, but that’s normal. It’s all normal, according to his therapist, and she’s on the short list when it comes to people he trusts. 

But then Clint comes home one day and looks at Bucky, sitting with his feet up on the coffee table and an apple in his metal hand, and says, “I think you need a dog.”

Bucky looks up in surprise. “I don’t think I need a dog.”

“You do,” Clint decides. “You definitely do.” He pauses for dramatic effect, and Bucky bites into his apple.

“I’m going to get you a dog.”

 

***

 

“Don’t get Barnes a dog,” says Natasha over lunch at their favorite burger place in Park Slope.

“Um, why the hell not?”

“Because.” She picks up a french fry and dips it into ketchup at least three times. “He doesn’t need another thing to distract him.”

“It wouldn’t be a regular dog, it would be a therapy dog! You know, to help with the stress and stuff. Besides,” Clint argues, gesturing to the air around them, “everyone needs a dog.” As if to prove his point, a large yellow lab trots by their table, barking excitedly when Clint holds out his hand.

“See?”

Natasha’s not even paying attention to the exchange, concentrating on her burger. “See what?”

Clint makes a face. “Forget it. Trust me, Nat. Everyone needs a dog.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and slurps her soda loudly in response.

“I’ll make a bet with you.”

That gets her to look up with a curious grin, and Clint smirks. Natasha never could resist a challenge, even if it came in the form of something as dumb as a childish argument.

“Okay. Twenty bucks you get him a dog, and he doesn’t need it.”

“ _Fifty_ bucks he loves it, _and_ you’re buying our next lunch.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, and extends her hand across the table.

“Deal.”

 

***

 

The truth is, Clint doesn’t really know the first thing about getting a dog, much less a therapy dog.

The only places he knows to get dogs are from breeders and pet stores, and neither seems like a good place to start. So after lunch with Natasha, he goes to the local library and starts looking up information. A quick internet search disappoints him with the knowledge that he actually would have to register Bucky as having some sort of disability in order to qualify for an actual service dog, with a process that looks long and rigorous. But a little more nuanced searching turns up a website where he can fill out a qualifying form that will put him in touch with a therapist, who will in turn provide him with a qualification letter, supposedly in less than twenty-four hours.

He quickly fills out the form in Bucky’s name, figuring that when it comes down to it, he’s done worse things in his life than forge someone’s identity. Sure enough, a letter arrives in his email almost a day later, stating that James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes has qualified for a therapy dog due to lingering issues of post traumatic stress disorder, anxiety attacks, and graphic nightmares.

 

***

 

Clint’s walking down an avenue in the West Village when he gets a phone call from Steve, asking if he’s around and wants to help him move some furniture in Stark’s penthouse that the billionaire obviously can’t be bothered with at the moment.

“You can’t do it yourself?” Clint asks. “I mean, you’re Captain America for a reason. You can lift cars.”

“I need someone to watch the place while I run in and out, to make sure everything gets moved correctly. We’ll get pizza after -- you in?”

Clint glances up at the cross street and double checks that there are no cars coming before he hurries across the intersection. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “I can’t right now. I’m a little busy.”

“Doing what?”

Clint realizes he could probably hesitate, but he doesn’t. “Getting Bucky a dog.”

Steve chokes on the other end of the line. “Seriously? Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why is everyone telling me that they think this is a bad idea?” Clint asks grumpily. “I’m trying to help him! Therapy dogs are good dogs!”

“Never thought Bucky was a dog person,” Steve says, a bit of marvel coloring his voice.

“Everyone loves dogs,” Clint insists. “Everyone needs a dog. Especially Bucky.”

“If you say so,” Steve agrees slowly. He’s answering as tonelessly as possible, but Clint swears he can hear laughter threatening to break from his throat.

 

***

 

Every few days, Bucky waits until he’s alone in the apartment, and then he stares at himself in the mirror and says the following things out loud:

_You are not who you were. You are not a bad person. You deserve more than what the world believes you can give. You are not dangerous._

There’s a gun in the sock drawer, but he hasn’t touched it since he came to live with Clint. He knows where Clint’s bow and his arrows are, and he knows the combination to the lock on the closet door that houses them, but he hasn’t gone looking. His only vices now, when he gets angry or out of sorts, are whiskey sodas and mutiple rounds of Overwatch (he’s already gone through three different controllers, much to Clint’s dismay.)

He’s in the middle of repeating another one of his mantras, telling his brain that his therapist would be proud, when Clint walks into the apartment. Bucky barely has a moment to turn around and say hello before a large golden retriever trots in behind him. He dutifully marches over to where Bucky is standing, sniffs his metal arm, and then plops down at his feet without a sound.

“Uh.” Bucky looks at Clint in total and utter confusion. “Who is this?”

“His name is Barnabus,” Clint explains proudly. “He’s a service dog. Isn’t he cute?”

 

***

 

Barnabus is, as it turns out, extremely cute. More importantly, he’s also good at his job, which includes reminding Bucky to eat by pulling at his pants leg when he’s lying on the couch, protectively sleeping at Bucky’s feet, and not leaving his side, especially when he has nightmares or when he gets struck with a bout of anxiety that causes him to drop a carton of eggs or a cup of juice on the kitchen floor.

But Bucky still isn’t sure if he really _needs_ him. After all, moving in with Clint was supposed to alleviate a lot of what he was feeling after Steve brought him back from Wakanda and from his second stint on ice. When Steve had introduced him to Clint and mentioned that they had some things in common, Bucky hardly expected it to be “also got brainwashed and mind controlled and killed people without remorse,” especially from a well-off, competent white dude who was an Avenger.

Then again, he hardly expected that spending time with Clint would lead to living together and enjoying each other’s company a little too much, but there’s a lot of things Bucky’s willing to give a pass to in this day and age, including who he found attractive.

“So, I got him from this old woman who lives on Mulberry,” Clint chatters as he buys Bucky a coffee at one of the many carts lining the Brooklyn streets. “He’s newly trained, but he passed all his exams and stuff with flying colors. She recommended a golden for you, because goldens adapt the easiest to strangers. They’ve never met someone they don’t like.”

“Are you sure about that?” Bucky asks as he takes his coffee, glancing down at Barnabus, who stares up at him with a serene look.

“Positive,” Clint confirms. “Look, he already won’t leave your side. It’s like he has no idea you murdered billions of people in the Cold War and _probably_ shot JFK.”

Bucky frowns and puts his hand on the dog’s head. Barnabus looks confused at the feel of metal against his fur, but soon seems to forget about it and nuzzles Bucky anyway.

“He’s gonna be a pest.”

“Yep.” Clint nods. “Already figuring I’m getting the short end of the stick in this situation. On the bright side, he can’t be more of a pest than you are on your worst days.”

Bucky tries to smile as they stop across from one of the city’s many public parks, and sips his coffee while Barnabus sits patiently on his heels, waiting for the appropriate moment to start walking again.

“People are scared of me,” he says finally, shifting his eyes to either side. “And they have a right to be.”

“So don’t give them a reason to be scared of you,” Clint says as Barnabus yelps at a squirrel and then calms. “Take him for walks and let him make you feel a little normal, and he’ll take care of you. You’ll start to get comfortable again. I promise.”

Bucky pulls his baseball cap lower over his head, and tightens his fingers around the leash. “You’re putting a lot of faith in this dog.”

“And they’re called man’s best friend for a reason,” Clint responds, hooking his arm through Bucky’s elbow as they walk into the park.

 

***

 

“I almost got a service dog,” Sam reveals. Bucky can tell he’s still wary (he gets it, he does -- he almost tried to kill the guy once upon a time) so he tries to slouch a little more and loosen his soldier stance, which he still can’t seem to rid himself of.

“They’re good dogs,” Bucky replies conversationally.

Sam snorts. “Yeah. The army offered one to me when I left, but I thought I didn’t need anything from them. I already was mad at myself for a lot of stuff that had happened when I was on their watch, so I just kind of paid it forward with the blame and shunned a lot of the help they tried to give me.” Sam nods towards the ground. “How’s he adapting to the apartment?”

“Not bad,” Bucky says, stopping and tugging gently on Barnabus’ leash, which is attached to a shiny new purple collar that showers sparkles whenever he moves. “I try to take him out for walks as much as possible. Clint sometimes brings him to parks, just so he can sit there and watch other dogs. We think it’s good for him, even though he’s not supposed to interact with other dogs that much. I mean, he’s just supposed to be focused on me. But we don’t want him to get depressed or anything by not getting outside.”

“Uh huh.”

Bucky sits down on a vacant bench, and Barnabus puts his head on Bucky’s jeans and rests his soft chin on his legs. Bucky smiles and lets his metal fingers rest on the scruff of his neck.

“He’s been really good with me,” Bucky continues as Sam sits down next to him. “He doesn’t even care that much about my arm. I think he kinda likes it.”

“No kidding,” Sam says dryly, but Bucky notices he’s looking at Barnabus with a little more interest.

“We’re thinking of getting him a Christmas tree with his own stocking this year,” he adds, and at this admission, Sam puts his head in his hands.

“Please tell me you won’t put antlers on his head and make him pose for photos.”

Bucky shrugs, because he’s not going to tell Sam that Clint had suggested that before he even suggested the Christmas tree part. He’s also not going to tell him that a pair of foam antlers already exist in a shopping bag, just waiting for holiday duties.

Sam sighs. “The Winter Soldier and the dog.”

“His name is Barnabus,” Bucky corrects, and Barnabus looks up at the sound of his name, cocking his head. “He’s a good dog.”

 

***

 

Natasha drops the bomb at the annual party they have every month in the wake of trying to save the world from various shit that sometimes _they_ don’t even understand. It’s a lavish get-together held on the very top floor of Stark Tower that includes catered food and bottle service worthy of ambassadors and princes, and usually, this where they’ll all share their news -- apartment hunting, girlfriends, boyfriends, _“oh, did you hear about the statue they’re building of Cap in that Brooklyn park? I saw a rendering, they really got his butt down.”_ Normally, Natasha doesn’t have much to add to the conversation unless it’s something like, “Clint got himself into another situation where he almost died, and let me tell you how much _that_ sucked.”

So when she opens with “Bucky and Clint got a dog,” everyone except Steve and Sam turns to stare at her as if she’s just announced she’s eloping and is jetting off to Paris for her honeymoon in two hours.

“Come again?” Tony takes a large swig of vodka, and Natasha makes a face as she imagines how it must taste. Vodka was her least favorite Russian stereotype and also her least favorite liquor.

“They got a dog.” That one is Steve, who gets up off the couch looking more than a little flushed, even though Natasha knows he’d never get drunk enough to let it show. “Barton told me when I called the other day.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Tony’s eyebrows are now hovering somewhere near his hairline. “What in god’s name made him think that was a good idea?”

“It’s a therapy dog,” Steve offers. “They’re supposed to be great for post traumatic stress.”

“Yeah, well, my dad had an AA sponsor and that wasn’t great for his post traumatic stress, plus you didn’t see him dragging the guy around like a toy,” Tony retorts. “Does he have a metal paw, too?”

As he finishes speaking, the elevator opens with a loud ding behind them. Everyone shifts at the same time as Bucky and Clint walk in, Bucky holding the leash of a large, seemingly well-mannered dog. Shy and entirely unassassin-like, he stops in his tracks, clearing his throat quietly, and shuffles his feet against the floor.

“Barnabus,” Bucky says, gesturing with his metal arm. “Meet the Avengers. Avengers...meet Barnabus.”

Wanda and Vision stare in silence. Sam shrugs, going back to his drink.

“Oh god,” Tony mutters at the same time that Steve immediately beelines towards the pair.

“Oh man, he is so _cute_ ,” he says, squatting down to rest a large palm on the dog’s nose. As Steve continues to fawn over the animal, Clint walks over to Natasha with a smug grin, holding out his hand.

“Pony up, Widow. I’ve got a date night planned for next week.”

 

***

 

“He’s not even listed on WeRateDogs,” Tony complains after another few drinks, hunched over a large tablet. “That’s preposterous.”

“He’s a service animal, not a regular pet,” Steve says, crossing his arms. “He’s probably not going to be on WeRateDogs, Tony.”

“Service dogs are people too, and I know for a fact that their twitter feed doesn’t discriminate,” Tony points out before his eyes narrow in Natasha’s direction. “Did you have something to do with this?”

“Don’t look at me,” Natasha says, making herself comfortable on the couch. She kicks off her heels and draws up her legs. “ _I_ tried to talk him out of it. Have any of you ever tried to talk Clint out of anything?”

“Yes,” Steve returns immediately. “Usually, you’re the only one he listens to.”

Natasha doesn’t have an answer to that, so in lieu of a response, she drinks more of her whiskey.

“Well,” she considers after she swallows. “I did lose a bet over it, but I have to admit he is a good dog.”

 

***

 

Bucky doesn’t always sleep well at night.

Clint gets it, because he was there at one point, too -- sometimes, he still is. It’s hard to sleep when you feel like the world is out to get you, when you only feel half available, like you’re watching yourself from the outside and you’re not sure what’s real and what’s not.

Tonight, though, Bucky’s in bed before Clint, one hand lazily thrown behind his head and his metal arm scratching Barnabus on the head as the dog dozes on top of the covers.

“Guess my spot is taken,” Clint observes when he walks into the room, stripping off his shirt and chucking it into the laundry basket across the room.

“Don’t blame Barnabus,” Bucky says. “He followed me in here and assumed it was bedtime.”

Clint shakes his head, staring at the dog and the way his head is practically smushed into Bucky’s knees.

“You’re a pushover, Barnes.”

“And _you’re_ a pushover if you’re letting a dog kick you out of bed.”

“Service dog,” Clint corrects with a smile. “Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time.” He lies down and makes himself comfortable, but Barnabus doesn’t even move. Bucky continues to stroke his head, and when Clint turns over, he sees Barnabus is now rubbing his nose against Bucky’s fingers.

“I can’t believe it. You’ve gone soft.”

“Shut up,” Bucky retorts, but Clint can see him starting to smile. “I told you. I didn’t need a dog.”

“Yeah, you did,” Clint replies as he closes his eyes. He’s almost asleep when he hears Bucky’s voice again, softly whispering in the dark.

“Glad I got you here, buddy. We’re gonna be one hell of a team.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @isjustprogress.


End file.
